


You Got Me

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 1632, Nate’s key scratches along the front door until he gets it slotted in the lock.<br/>(February 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Got Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Roots song.  
> (Comment!Fic originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/163928.html?thread=1661272#t1661272).)

Nate’s last class of the day is Clarke’s lecture on counterterrorism. It’s supposed to be over at 1615, if the schedule hanging on the message board above Nate’s phone is accurate.   
  
At 1632, Nate’s key scratches along the front door until he gets it slotted in the lock. Nate drops his dog-eared copy of _Defeating the Jihadists_ , a spiral-bound quad-ruled notebook and his keys on the end table inside the door. His eyes are smudged darkly.  
  
Brad sprawls the length of Nate’s couch like he’s the king of this domain and keeps his eyes on Fox News, tracking Nate’s progress through the apartment by sound. He’s enjoying the still ongoing debate of the 9/11 Commission’s recommendation to rebrand the position of CIA director as a National Intelligence Director and a Sam Adams (when in Rome and all). Well, he _was_ enjoying that beer, Brad corrects, watching Nate take a long pull.  
  
“Hey. That’s mine.”  
  
Nate smoothes the foam along his upper lip with the back of his thumb. “Technically, it’s mine. Who bought it? Me. Who’s drinking it? Me. See? All mine.”  
  
“I see you’ve mastered supply-side economics, you stingy fucker. What about demand? As in, ‘I demand to have my beer back.’”  
  
Nate quirks one side of his mouth. “That’s next semester. Until then, get your own.”  
  
Brad’s rebuttal is stopped by a quick press of wind-chapped lips. Nate overbalances and tries to pull away but Brad’s got one hand on the back of his neck and fingers twined in Nate’s decidedly non-regulation hair. Nate braces himself by pressing the hand holding the beer into the back of the couch. Brad’s licking along the seam of Nate’s lips. Nate is searching for purchase along Brad’s torso with his free hand. The first swipe of Brad’s tongue into Nate’s mouth elicits a gasp-moan, and Brad grins as he presses his advantage. He’s trying to shift them, position Nate between his legs.  
  
Nate’s grip on the beer slips as condensation beads between the glass and his hand. He tries to shift his hold, but he overcorrects and ends up sliding in the opposite direction from what Brad’s pulling him in. His fingers scrabble along Brad’s shoulder and _dig_ as he tries to keep himself from ending up on the floor between the coffee table and couch.  
  
“Ow, ow, ow. _Ow_!” Brad’s got a hold of his hip lightning quick, holding him in place.  
  
“That, um.” Nate huffs a laugh into the air between their mouths. “That didn’t turn out as well as it could’ve.”  
  
Brad’s fingers loosen their hold in Nate’s hair. “Not so much, no.” He brushes his thumb along the shadows beneath Nate’s left eye. “C’mere,” he whispers before pulling Nate into a quick, chaste brush of lips.  
  
Nate stands up. Brad tucks himself into the corner of the couch, right foot planted on the floor and left stretched along the back cushions. Nate sinks bonelessly into the inviting ‘v’.   
  
Brad wraps his arms around Nate’s chest, tugging him even closer. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah, just… Rough day, y’know.” It’s not that Nate doesn’t want to tell Brad about it; he already called his dad on the way back to the apartment and simply doesn’t feel like telling the same story again.  
  
Brad ‘hmmm’s an agreement as Nate takes another pull from the beer. He loosens his hold around Nate’s chest and then his thumbs are pressing circles on each side of Nate’s spine. “Anything I can do?”  
  
“This is good,” he sighs as Brad works a knot along his shoulder blade. Nate sets the beer on the edge of the coffee table and relaxes into the touch.   
  
Brad presses a soft kiss into the paper-thin skin behind Nate’s ear. Nate sinks further into the warm solidity behind him, his eyelids already drifting closed.   
  
“I’m here.”


End file.
